


Easy in the Speakeasy

by LindsayBay



Category: eight men out
Genre: F/M, public fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-03-01 11:54:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13294329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LindsayBay/pseuds/LindsayBay
Summary: This is a fic about the 'Eight men Out' version of baseball player Chick Gandil, as played by Michael Rooker.Chicago, 1924. A flapper meets disgraced baseball player Chick Gandil in a speakeasy.





	Easy in the Speakeasy

Chicago, 1924

The blustery January wind practically blows you into the speakeasy. You hand your velvet cocoon coat and matching cloche to the coat-check girl and head immediately for the powder room. Your winter boots are exchanged for a pair of kitten heels. You pat your spit curls into place and check your makeup. The door opens. It’s your friend Maisie. “That dress is the berries,” she says.

“Thanks, Maze.” You spin in front of the full-length mirror, admiring the way the ivory net overdress moves with the weight of all the silver bugle beads that you painstakingly sewed onto it. Underneath is a slip of salmon-colored satin. The hemline is scandalously high. Working for an older sister who owns a dressmaking business means you can wear clothes that a movie star would envy, even though you’re far from rich.

“Oh!” Maisie exclaims, “did you hear who’s here?”

“No. Al Capone?”

“Nope. Think sportier.”

“Jackie Fields?”

“Not boxing.” Maisie mimed swinging a baseball bat.

“Eh.” You wave a hand. “Who can remember the names of all those new guys in the White Sox?”

“That’s just it. It’s not a new guy. It’s Chick Gandil.”

“What the heck is he doing back in town?”

“A little birdie told me that his wife kicked him out.”

“Really.” You think while you make sure that the seams of your stocking are straight, then roll them to the middle of your knees so a little bit of bare thigh shows. You’d come here tonight on a mission: to find yourself a Gold Coast sugar daddy. But you remember Chick Gandil from all the games you’d attended with your sister, back before the Black Sox Scandal. So handsome, with broad shoulders and arms so strong that they gave a girl  _ideas_.

Maisie combs her glossy black bob. “If I was still a single gal, I’d be taking that car out for a spin. Ohhh!” She pops her eyes and mouth open wide in feigned surprise. “You’re single.”

“Why, yes, I am.”

“He’s sitting near the bandstand. Go get him, tiger.”

Leaving the powder room, you very carefully do not glance in the direction of the bandstand. You walk with a swing in your hips, making your dress swirl with every step. When you reach the bar, you sit on the stool sideways and cross your legs, letting your hemline ride up a little. “Someone’s hunting for big game.” Liang, known as the most beautiful bartender in Chicago, smiles at you knowingly.

“Maybe,” you drawl. “What’ve you got for lubrication?”

“Some real panther piss. Just take a whiff.” Liang holds an uncorked bottle of yellowish liquid under your nose. It smells like gasoline. “G-men took down my regular supplier, so this is all I have to work with.”

“Hit me.” Liang does her magic, mixing the alcohol with fruit juice and sugar. Before you take your first sip, you ask, “This won’t make me go blind, will it?” Even made into a cocktail, it’s rough going down. But soon it spreads its warmth all through your body, taking the edge off.

“We got an admirer at the Tribune.” Liang hands you a newspaper clipping. ‘Den of Iniquity!’ screams the title of the editorial. “ ‘ _Base desires are stirred by the jungle rhythms of jazz music_ ,’ “ you read aloud, “ ‘ _The races mingle promiscuously_.’ This is great advertising!”

“So,” Liang says, “who’s your target tonight?”

“I hear there’s a lost little Chick over by the bandstand.”

“Yeah, he’s still there. You better hurry, Coco’s flashing her gams at him.”

You slide off the stool and carry your drink toward the rear of the main room. The band is still setting up. Using your peripheral version, you locate Chick Gandil. He’s easy to spot, with his luxuriant curls, rugged face, and broad shoulders. He’s sitting at a table with another man. They’re both watching Coco, who is actually standing on the bandstand and adjusting her stockings. The girl has no concept of subtlety. “Hey, Coco, your big brother is looking for you. Says your pop is going to cut off your allowance if you’re caught in here again.” Coco cusses and zooms toward the coat check. The girl is also quite gullible.

“Well, now that you’ve scared away our female companionship, it’s only fair that you keep us company.” That gritty, sexy voice. You’ve heard it before, back when you were still a late-blooming high-schooler getting ballplayers’ autographs. “Here you go, little girl,” he had said to you. He’s not going to mistake you for a little girl now.

You turn and, for the first time tonight, look at him directly. He’s giving you a cocky grin and, even in the dim light of the speakeasy, his deep blue eyes are arresting. A tingle shoots through your entire body. He’s turned his chair toward you and he’s sitting with his knees far apart, pulling the gabardine of his gray trousers tight against his thighs. His tie is undone and the first couple of buttons are open on his fine cotton shirt, showing a notch of chest. You hope you applied enough powder to hide the flush you feel rising in your cheeks. “I suppose,” you say, trying to keep your voice cool.

Chick gets up and pulls a chair out for you. “Whyn’t you introduce me to your new friends?” you hear. It’s Maisie. You shoot her a smile. She’s there to make sure no other girls horn in on your action. The other man at the table scrambles up to pull out a chair for her.

“I’m Chick Gandil. What’s your name, doll?” The way he says it, he expects you to know who he is.

“My name is Y/N.” You put a finger to your lips, pretending to think hard. “Gosh, that name sounds vaguely familiar.”

“Yeah, well, I used to play ball in town.”

“Oh. What are you doing now?”

“Trying to put together a semi-pro team. Not here, though. I’m just passing through. Stopped here because I’m looking for a good time.” He lifts his cocktail and gives you a look over the rim of the glass that makes you feel warm everywhere, especially between your thighs.

“Well, you’re in the right place. We’ve got the best band in the state, and this place’ll never, ever get busted.”

“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”

“See that man there with the red tie? That’s the chief of police, and that sheba he’s with sure ain’t his wife.”

“But that mook over there with no neck, isn’t that–”

“Here, the lion lays down with the lamb. Once you step through the door, you’re no longer a cop or a gangster.”

“Yeah, but who’s the lion and who’s the lamb in that scenario?”

The band is ready to go. It’s a tight little ensemble. The lights go down and the band leads off with  _Toot Toot Tootsie (Goodbye)_. As close as you are to the bandstand, conversation is almost impossible. Chick’s friend and Maisie head to the dance floor. Chick moves his chair closer, so close that your knees touch. “What do you do, Y/N,” he says into your ear.

“I’m in fashion.”

“I should have guessed. When it comes to looking good, you really know your onions.”

A cocktail waitress comes by and Chick buys another round. You sip slowly. You don’t want to get zozzled tonight. You’ve already decided that you’re going to make whoopie with this handsome slab of manhood and you want to remember it. The area of your skin that’s touching him is maybe one square inch big, but you’re having trouble thinking about anything else. You wouldn’t be surprised to see sparks shooting from the connection, the feeling between the two of you is so electric. It’s obvious by the way he tries to discreetly adjust the front of his trousers that he’s feeling it, too. 

The conversation can only be carried one by putting mouths right up to ears. The feel of his lips brushing lightly against you as he speaks, the warmth of his breath–they’re making your nipples stand at attention. When you speak to him, you can smell the pomade in his hair, his spicy aftershave, a hint of his own natural scent. The content of your conversation is unimportant. It’s what’s underneath it. The banter is just foreplay. He lets a finger brush against your bare thigh and you have to suppress a gasp. You can see his cock pushing against the fabric of his trousers and there’s a surge of wetness between your legs. He doesn’t even care that his burgeoning erection is visible to the people around him, which is oddly arousing.

“Who do you think you are, showing your sorry face in this town?” a belligerent voice bellows. The beefy man is familiar, some scion of a department store fortune. His face is red. He’s obviously soused but still steady on his feet. “You’re a disgrace to the city of Chicago!”

Chick’s face goes tight, his eyes small and mean. “Mind your own beeswax, fat boy.”

“This city’s reputation is my beeswax! My family made this city! You–you’re just a… just a nobody! A pissant!” The man leans right in Chick’s face, spewing spit with his next words. “You’re a piece of shit!”

Chick erupts from his chair, plowing into the other man. His right fist hits the other man’s temple, dropping him immediately. “Anyone else wanna say something? Huh? No?” No one says a word. The man on the floor shakes his head like he’s trying to wake himself up, then crawls toward the men’s room. The band hasn’t missed a beat.

Chick still looks agitated. His face is red, he’s breathing hard, and his fists are still clenched. Your eyes lock. The intensity of his gaze both frightens you and makes you dampen your step-ins. The band launches into  _Charleston_  and the fight is forgotten as the speakeasy patrons head en masse to the dance floor. Frantically dancing bodies surround Chick, feet stepping a mile a minute. The air is full of whoops and hollering; the Charleston has a way of making people go wild. Chick is a point of stillness among the ferment, and you feel drawn toward him.

You get up from your chair and walk to him, weaving through the ebullient dancers. You stand close, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, and he seizes your hips and pulls you roughly against him. As you twine your arms around his neck, you can feel his erection pressing into your stomach. He leans his forehead on yours, his lips slightly parted, his breath rapid. The two of you begin a slow dance.

His hands splay across your ass, sending tingles down between your legs as he massages you through the cloth of your dress. His mouth captures yours in a deep, demanding kiss. You can’t stop your hands from exploring him, feeling his muscles through his shirt and jacket. His biceps flex under your touch, his strength making you weak. You want him to throw you over his shoulder and carry you out. You want to put your leg around his waist and writhe against him like a cat in heat. You growl and nip at his lower lip. He laughs softly against your mouth. “Quite the little bearcat, aren’t you,” he says.

Chick slides one hand around to the front your hip and starts slowly working your dress up, inch by inch. When his hand touches bare flesh just below the hem of your step-ins, you inhale sharply. He lets it sit there for a moment. Then he moves his hand to the juncture of your thighs, stroking you through the silk of your underwear. The band starts playing a slow song as Chick takes his time touching you, finding the places that make you purr.

You know you must be soaking through your step-ins as he presses circles around your most sensitive place with one finger. “I found it,” he whispers smugly into your ear as you let out a tiny moan. “I’m wanna suck on it.” His finger keeps moving, circling. You can’t stop yourself from grinding yourself onto his hand. His fingers move your underpants to the side and find your soft, wet flesh. The band plays another song, a raunchy blues number.

_Baby won’t you shave ‘em dry_

_Want you to grind me baby_

_Grind me until I cry_

Chick finds your little nubbin again, pressing and releasing, pressing and releasing. Your face against his neck, you moan as the tension builds low in your belly. You can hear his breathing, ragged and harsh. You let your fingers brush against the front of his trousers, finding his erection. You feel it twitch, he makes a raspy sound deep in his throat, and there’s a moment when time seems to stand still, when you know it’s going to happen. It’s like a blossom of heat erupting from your core. You can’t help biting his neck as your climax rocks you.

As you come back to yourself, you feel a little self-conscious, but a quick look around shows you that most of the others on the dance floor are too involved in their own lovemaking to pay any attention to what you’re doing. The two of you certainly aren’t the only ones getting frisky in public. Chick raises his fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean of your juices while staring into your eyes. You can feel his cock twitch and jump against your belly and you want to know what it would feel like inside you. “Take me,” you sigh.

Chick heaves you up and over his shoulder. He slaps one hand smartly on your rump and lets it sit there. You can hear some whistles as he carries you out. You know you’re going to get a razzing about this tomorrow night, but you don’t care. You’re being carried into some back hallway and then Chick lifts you off of his shoulder and sets you firmly against a brick wall.

Looking around, you see that you’re in a storage room. Light flickers from a solitary overhead bulb. The band can be heard faintly through the walls. Chick helps you remove your dress, leaving you in your little silky underthings. “Dance for me, doll,” he says.

It’s another bluesy number, a perfect beat for dirty dancing. You wind your arms in the air and writhe, swiveling your pelvis slowly. Chick sits back on a pile of boxes, licking his lips as your erect nipples press against the front of your lacy camisole. The way he’s gazing at you with heavy-lidded eyes, the way his erection strains against the front of his trousers, the way he touches himself and bites his lip… You’re so aroused that you know he can see the wet spot in your step-ins. You ease off your camisole, shake your bubs for him, then slide your underpants down your legs. You strut over to Chick and grab the ends of his tie, yanking him forward into a kiss. You straddle his lap, grinding against him until you’re on the edge of coming again.

 _Oh, not yet_ , you think. You want him inside you. The two of you work at undoing his shirt and pants. Underneath, he has the typical frustrating male underwear. You tear the buttons off his union suit and yank it open and his erection pops right out. It’s thick and purple and slick at the tip. You strip him down to the waist because you want to look at him, the way he wants to look at you. He is so damned beautiful.

You sit astride Chick with your legs spread wide. He whimpers, his cock quivering and dripping as he looks down at your pussy. He rocks his hips involuntarily when, smiling wickedly, you touch yourself a little. You grasp his erection and lower yourself down onto it, gazing into his eyes. “Oh, my God,” you breath. It feels _so good_.

You move slowly, reveling in the feeling of him filling you up over and over again. He makes deep, throaty noises as he watches you, his mouth slack with lust. He holds you firmly by the hips and you lean back so he has a clear view of your pussy sliding up and down on his cock. You can feel his thighs tensing between yours and you know he’s close to coming, so you stop.

“Please,” you hear him plead. You laugh wickedly. You can feel him throbbing inside of you. “Have mercy on me. Finish me off.” There are beads of sweat rolling down his face. You can see a vein pulsing on the side of his head. Seeing a man so desperate is strangely exciting. You squeeze you internal muscles around his cock and he moans. “I can’t take much more of this,” he grits out from between his teeth.

“Then do something about it,” you say. In a swift movement, Chick rolls you underneath him, roaring like a bear. You knees are spread wide and, raised up on his elbows, he starts pounding into you. “Oh, God,” you pant, not able to say more than that. This is the hardest fucking you’ve ever gotten. You know you’re going to be sore tomorrow. But right now, it feels better than  _anything_. Sweat falls from his forehead onto you as he plunges into you. You lay your feet flat on the boxes underneath you to give you leverage meet him thrust for thrust. You pull at his hair, claw at his back, scream out his name when you come. Chick’s climax is almost as noisy.

The two of you pull away from each other reluctantly; the boxes are not exactly comfortable. Chick tries to rebutton his union suit and chuckles. “Need a little lady to sew my buttons back on.”

You’re pulling your lingerie back on. “Don’t look at me. I’m not the wifey type.”

Chick looks at you and smiles. “No. You most certainly are not.” He helps you with your dress, then gives you a lingering kiss. “I’m in town for a few more days. Will I find you here again?”

“Maybe. Now, be a good boy and buy me another drink.”


End file.
